Torn Down From Glory Daily
by munchkinjenny05
Summary: Seeing the future through the eyes of the past is a hard habit to break. Quinn has nevertheless managed to build a life that's finally hers to mould. She doesn't fall into old traps, or get sunk by the inevitable anchors, because even if a certain anniversary proves impossible to ignore and allows fate to throw up a kindred spirit who she can't save, all she can do is keep trying.


**A/N: Not only is this my first crossover fic, it is also a relatively new style of writing, so I'd appreciate kind, constructive feedback I suppose. I've only been inspired by poetry to this extent once before, and I liked how that story turned out so hopefully, E.E Cummings will come through for me. **

**I finished watching MIOBI a few days ago, and since then, I couldn't stop thinking about the similarities between Lauren and Quinn. They are both my favourite characters, but it goes beyond that. It even exceeds the aesthetic of them both as pretty blonde haired, hazel eyed rich girls. They have both been almost broken by adversity and their character arcs from stereotypical bitchy character to where they ended up were compelling. I wanted to capture some of the parallels, but more than that, I longed to explore what would have happened in an AU universe because the best form of solace you can find, I believe, is in a likeminded person, however lasting or temporary it needs to be.**

_**Somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence; in your most frail gestures are things that enclose me, of which I cannot touch because they are too near….**_

Everything is so fragile, she should have had that figured that out the first time she sees the other girl, remembering from her own experiences that sometimes the best they can do is papering over the cracks, trying to hold on for as long as possible. Quinn should have learnt her lesson in the instant the hunched over form sparks her recognition. The familiarity to the stranger's pose should be an alarm bell, enough for her to step away. Instead, she hovers, drawn in and wonders if the universe has put out a siren call amongst the desperate that she had unwittingly heard. It's rare that she ever finds herself in the right place at the right time and yet, because of the date on the calendar, she ends up somewhere that she hadn't been in a long time.

She calls it fate rather than damnation as she approaches, needing to clutch at some upbeat feelings for once and believe she has left her purgatory behind. She knows that's only partly true, fresh starts are all well and good, but the anniversary finds her anywhere. It cannot be erased. However, the church acts as a life-raft, especially at night, alone amongst the ancient sighing timbers. They seem to whisper their advice and the blonde continually hopes for a sign or some sort, although what she actually discovers is a painful blast from the past, a girl crying harder than she could ever hope to pray, her hands clasped together even as the teardrops fall against her whitened knuckles, loosening the grip.

In a daze that leads her far from good sense and judgement, Quinn's psyche awakes to the cruel and endless parallels of the scene that is unfolding and she can't bring herself to stop the slideshow and turn on her heels.

"I don't think I can carry on like this! What happened to, everything will be okay in the end? I've done everything that anyone has asked of me, I've been patient, understanding, but nothing gets any better. I know I have no right to ask, and I know I was spoilt before, but please, can't I just have a single yes, something that goes my way just once." The girl's speech falters and she reaches out in defeat, grabbing the small cross around her neck. It should be a replica of the other blonde's, but everything about the pendant is different, it catches the light and bounces it in entirely another way, throwing up a riot of sparkles._ Rich white girl problems. _That's Quinn's first thought.

She steps forward in place of shrinking back, not only as a result of being drawn into the growing pantomime of despair cracking the soft voice, but because her own melancholic demons have surfaced and the misery she fights so hard to shake off has settled between her shoulder blades again, wrapping herself around her. She cannot afford to flinch away, turning the other cheek as everybody in her life seemed to do too often. She understands that the girl is haunted too, and there is nobody else. Too many people turned the other cheek to her, and she won't do the same. If there's one thing that Quinn Fabray fathoms without question, it's the feeling of being forsaken by God and this other blonde was clearly in the grip of a similar situation. She won't just leave her to her freefall.

"Have you ever wondered if he," she points to the ceiling with an exaggerated smirk, "has office hours?" A clogged up answer machine springs to mind, much like the monotonous beep she encounters whenever she tries to call Rachel, which doesn't happen often now. Her weak moments thankfully, are few and far between. Nevertheless, at the thought, her smile dies, becoming a rigid grimace. The universe is certainly hell bent on its reminders, past and present.

The other girl jumps, unavoidably startled and Quinn feels guilty when she clutches her chest, breathing raggedly. "You could have given me a heart attack." The small blonde laughs, but it sounds dry, like the rustle of fallen leaves that she has just navigated on the path outside. Without being privy to the gleaming flash of pristine white teeth and the accompanying smile that stretched her features to breaking, she would have probably mistaken it for another sob. There's no mirth behind the sound, and she recognises that the hollowness isn't just an echo from the lofty acoustics.

"Sorry." Quinn murmurs, feeling blame for the shutters that have rolled down over the girl as their eyes meet for the first time. The hazel orbs mirror how hers used to look, staying blank, a light switched off inside. She glances down again quickly, grateful for the temporary distraction that her handbag offers. She regrets the shift, forcing the stranger back into her armour. She shouldn't need it in church of all places, and in spite of the tough exterior that the girl has fallen back on; she feels the vulnerability that still radiates, making everything more agonising. She doesn't miss that inner tug of war in her guts. "Here, take this." She retorts, the olive branch being a bottle of water. The girl shrugs, but Quinn is persistent, only stopping short of physically reaching out to wipe away the streaks of salt. "It'll help, I promise."

"Don't promise me anything." The girl replies. Her voice is jagged and heavy with the threat of fresh tears, and yet when Quinn reaches out, her hand millimetres away, the stranger stands to go with all the emotion of a robot. She doesn't react to the comfort, and it doesn't help that her long curls hang to obscure her face. It's her first glimpse of Lauren Tanner's art of practiced blankness. It is part of an arsenal, one of many tricks she throws out to create the impression that she is cold and unfeeling. Quinn isn't taken in, but on the other hand, unable to see anything else, she takes a moment to study the only window she is granted, the hair itself.

In the past she has found it remarkably significant. For her, eyes aren't the only way of glimpsing into a person's soul. There are tells she can read like a book, useful insight to be gleaned. For example, the present condition reveals that whilst this girl's locks used to be regularly bleached to a brash, false shade just a few tones brighter than her own high school dye job, they must have been expensively treated and styled to minimise damage. There are no split ends, though in contrast, the darker roots are prevalent which means that the routine treatments still shine through an obvious barrier of recent neglect. She isn't too far gone yet, but maybe she is getting there, if someone doesn't halt the decline. Quinn began to construct a back story for the stranger then and there, but she couldn't decide which way to go. She was unsure whether the care and attention formerly lavished signalled money to burn, or an overriding belief that in spite of the time and funds, the good grooming was worth it. Ironically, she is no nearer to establishing the truth about Lauren's hair now. All she is sure of is, whether or not the girl cares about what could conceivably be called her crowning glory anymore, Quinn will always remained stunned by it. After the eyes, it was the first thing that her gaze lingered upon, that day, and in the many that followed. She will forever adore the effect of the unintended multi-tones, the way that dirty blonde sweeps into a shade that is almost caramel. It again reminded her of the shifting hues of the trees.

She opened her mouth, although what she could possibly say to change anything, Quinn has no clue. She has always been more comfortable with silence regardless of whether she exhausts all the pockets of comfort to be found therein. "A promise is a cloud, fulfilment is rain." She murmurs softly, remembering the cryptic proverb that inspired at outdoor art exhibit in NYC. It stuck with her long after the other memories of her visit blurred at the edges. The attempt rewards her unimpressed scowl that makes her smile again. "I think it means that you're right not to trust in empty words." She elaborates, hoping that the girl will be appeased by the knowledge that her cynicism is partly shared.

That isn't the case. "Great." The sarcasm isn't remotely toned down, which only increases the curve of Quinn's grin. She is left in the empty pew, smiling alone, and in her wake, the only proof that she hadn't always been, is the sticky smear of gloss on the rim of her water bottle. That provides another piece of the puzzle to muse over, and although she doubts then that they will ever cross paths again, she ponders anyway, unable to help it. It smells strongly of strawberry milkshake and the scent unsettlingly artificial, jarring in a sense as she is certain that she didn't just catch the girl on an off day, and so, the cheeriness doesn't fit the picture. Quinn asks herself if that lip balm is an artefact of the girl that the stranger had once been, in happier times. The girl couldn't have been older than 17, she'd thought, and it seemed to her, too young to be on her second life. Then again, her world broke apart before that age and with that in mind, it's wrong to expect this blonde, wearing her eyes, to have survived the wringer of adolescence anymore intact. Youth didn't automatically equate to happiness, despite her once foolishly held belief that being a pretty teenage girl could open any door.

_**Nothing we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing….**_

The second time they met could have been credited to another quirk of fate, the work of a simple coincidence. Quinn didn't work at the bar anymore, she turns up for the shift acting on a begged favour for a sick friend, and the other girl is already practically halfway out the door, on the dregs of her last drink when she crashes through to join her, harried by the hectic dash across town and solely concerned with scraping her unwashed hair back. The stranger that isn't quite so unknown, turns at the sound, and the flash of hazel attracts Quinn like a beacon, separated as they are by a band of wood and fibre glass. _I'd know those eyes anywhere. _The busyness of the place, full of lights and sounds, coupled with the assurance of being on her own turf, makes her unabashed. She is set to work mode, the friendly bar girl with the cheeky grin and sympathetic ear. In this role, it feels right that she could advance fearlessly.

"Should you be drinking that?" She enquires, leaning across to use low, conspiratorial tones.

"I know what you're thinking, what kind of girl gets wasted on a Thursday afternoon, but the contents of this glass, they are the only thing I'm sure of."

Quinn tries not to be weighed down, keeping her tone upbeat. She has taken upon herself the role of cheerer-upper. She can afford gentle commiseration, but not sliding into depressiveness. It occurs that she might have a saviour complex where this girl is concerned, but she presses on. "I'm not judging, I only meant that I'm on the clock and I'm supposed to ID, so…." Her gaze flickers towards the blonde's youthful face. Her make-up is minimal, unlike before, the aim is to flatter rather than mask and the loose hair flowed around her shoulders, is freshly curled. She's looks pretty and serene. It's difficult to ascertain the level of credit that the alcohol in her blood deserves.

The reply is the distinctly unimpressed sound of teeth being sucked. "So kick me out, I'm almost old enough, besides which, I'm still living like its Dusseldorf, and in Europe, the legal drinking age passed me by already." If it's a lie, it's a very convincing one and any lingering doubt vanishes with the driver's licence that is slid across towards her. Quinn manages to avoid raising her eyebrows at her incorrect guess of the stranger's age. It wasn't hard to believe her prior assumption; the girl is so young looking, tiny. She recalls the image of a delicate flower, struggling against the breeze that seeks to bend it.

"Regardless, I'm cutting you off. This job is my fallback, so I need to stay in the bosses' good books."

"Whatever." With a returned shrug, Quinn settles in and begins the monotonous task of cleaning glasses. She anticipates that the stool will soon be vacated, the rapidly melting ice, which is the only thing tying the blonde to it, virtually disappeared, but she stays long after, swirling around the empty glass idly until there was no trace. Even, once that distraction is gone, she sits, her fingers tracing patterns across the polished surface. It's a beautifully mournful scene, captivating Quinn's interest as she notes that the moves resemble the composition of a complex dance.

"Are you a ballerina?"

The girl's fingers stop at once, stock still. "You've got to be kidding me!" She scoffs, her eyes darkening angrily. It was the first flash that Quinn has seen of the person existing beyond the barricade, fierce and thrilling. It feels like the start of a longwinded excavation. Quinn swings her pick again.

"Sorry, I just, I got the impression that you travel a lot and I thought that might be the reason why." It's a lame excuse, not what she's actually thinking at all, but after the reaction she's intrigued enough to dig, wanting to uncover how it is that the girl carries herself like a dancer. She's seen poise before, in her friends, other performers, but there is something different about the grace of this girl. It appears in-built, effortless. Her theories about this only deepened when she asked her co-worker Rian later and discovered that prior to her arrival; Lauren had been working the juke box pretty hard. Her moves were apparently _on another level_, and Quinn has no doubt that the speechless exclamation rings true. She has never needed a demonstration but, all the same, one of the only secrets that Lo saw fit to share with her about her lifestyle was the method she used often for securing a steady supply of drinks and attention. The tactic had apparently never failed, which again, she had no reason to disbelieve.

"You were right about the first part; you just put the wrong motivation in column B."

"So, what is your job, what drives you?"

"No job, unless you count a rebellion against 9-5. I was hoping that with each change of scenery, I'd find something to stop me feeling ordinary, but it hasn't been as simple as all that. Different time zones, same problems." At first, Quinn thought she had misheard because this girl sitting at the bar simply not capable of being mistaken for average.

"Don't take this the wrong way but you're not-"

The interruption is swift, cut throat. "I'm flattered." She doesn't sound that way at all, she sounds resentful. "I should go." Quinn holds her breath. She cannot decode why the notion of this girl leaving again feels like the worst, ugliest form of rejection. Her heart hurts as she throws it out on a string, praying the tender organ won't be mangled. "Can I get your number, call you?" It's beyond a long shot and the asking borders on humiliation because she doesn't even know her name yet, but she can't just let go. Every minuscule thing she's teased out about this blonde is trapped under her skin and the more she hears, or uncovers, the more intriguing the girl becomes. Her sources are reliable but nevertheless the paltry list of things she thinks she knows needs to be added to, and validated, before she can breathe again. She doesn't understand it, only sees the legitimacy of her desperation. It was always too late to backpedal, she couldn't have changed any of this if she wanted to, Quinn was in too deep from the first moment.

"No, but, if I run into you again, you can _call _me Lo."

_**(I do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses.)**_

By the next time they had found each other, Quinn had given up on the prospect of another coincidence. She was sure that she let herself waste her final chance encounter the last time and it doesn't help her confidence that, on this next night, she nearly fails to recognise the other girl at all. Lo isn't the fragile shell hiding in an empty church at night or the glassy eyed girl buried in temporary solace located at the bottom of a glass. She's a bombshell clothed in vivid aqua, distracting flashes of skin and OTT jewels that can shatter your eyelids if you stare. She's almost a vision of carefree loveliness, except that through the fakery of her spidery lashes; her stone eyes seek to betray her with each blink or glimpse. It isn't hard to see, if you know what to look for, and Quinn does, better than most. She's patient, and she watches the fracturing happen in sweeps of those lashes, forming tiny cracks which grow and grow. The results are deafening and irrefutable. The girl isn't just lost, she's drowning. It's the only time she sees, undeniably and firsthand that the real Lauren Tanner isn't the charming social butterfly that she projects to the world, she's a lonely chameleon.

"Hey." She exclaims loudly, feeling herself like the world's biggest fraud. "We have to stop meeting like this." Wary eyes narrow momentarily before Lo composes herself. She smiles and even though it rings so falsely that it cannot mean anything, not reaching high enough to illuminate, it still dazzles Quinn. She's grateful in that moment that the lights are low and her blush is kept secret. "My name's Quinn, since you never asked."

"Maybe I didn't want to know. Did it occur to you that maybe I didn't care?"

She was unfazed by the hostility. "Not once." She counters, starting to walk away. Lauren, the introductions hadn't been made then but she knows anyway because she overheard, in fact she knows more that she will ever let on, stands in front of her aware that she's been rumbled, anxiously twisting her necklace. Quinn wishes in that instant that she chose to wear the cross, for her own comfort, but also if nothing else, for her to keep a piece of the connection from that initial night.

"Wait." Her voice was low, but instead of slight, it sounded steely. There's a warning to that one word. "Are we going to be okay here?" She whispers, it's a threatening sound, a harsh contrast, and world away in every sense, but somehow not. The desperation still winked out at Quinn. _Keep my secret._

She nodded. "How's things?" She asks casually, hiding behind vague pleasantries as requested. She expects that Lauren will do the same, play by the rules she set down and reveal that she's _fine_ and float away, tottering on her expensive heels with her champagne flute and a phony smile to carry her. That would be that, farewell for now. In actual fact though, the blonde opts for rare honesty, flooring her.

"Jeez, you already know the answer, you ruined my underage drinking spot for me and as you witnessed, God's not Santa Clause. What does that leave me with, I can't just snap my fingers." The girl barks back angrily, spitting out the phrases as if to be finally rid of them. She exhales, her brow smoothing out in the same instant as if she had never lost her cool. Lauren smiles falsely to top off the performance. "So, as I was saying, in summary, things are fantastic."

"Calm down, I just wanted to see if the big guy upstairs checked his voicemail yet?" It isn't strictly true, but if Lauren wants to be antagonistic, Quinn is prepared to give her a dose of the same. _Two can play this game. _

"Don't you dare mock me; nothing about my life is funny."

"I know the feeling."

"I have to mingle." She doesn't intend to see Lauren for the rest of the evening, and her plan almost works. In fact, if not for her vantage point on the stage, she would have missed her entirely. Quinn is too wrapped up in seeming hard to get, and too involved in her other responsibility of the night. Again she is on the clock, and she wonders why it is that the universe puts her in front of Lauren only when she cannot devote her full attention. _Maybe I'm not ready for that. _Whatever the reason, it's cruel that she's torn and cannot focus solely on anything. It left a lot undone, and not only on that night.

Her songs have never been upbeat, but the celebration, and her pay check, demands that she be a degree less angst fuelled, so she turns to cover versions of other people's happiness, infusing them with as much passion as her listless heart can manage to command. Regardless, a third of the way into the set, it gets tedious, the pretending, so to stop herself from folding since she badly needs the rent, Quinn glances around. She won't admit it to herself, but she hopes that another dose of Lauren will give her the injection she needs to keep from sounding so flat. It works. Their eyes lock and she nails the vocals going into the bridge. Lauren is dancing, on autopilot for once, with some faceless jock type, his shirt clashing horribly with her dress in a way that makes Quinn's temples want to throb in protest of every step. She narrows her sight so that the blonde is the only one in the frame, and it feels nicer, but the moves are still too mechanical. She cannot approve of dance without passion, and therefore she attempted to stir some, winking as the other girl looks up, possibly awoken by the same lyric which resonated with her, or maybe just finally recognising the voice as belonging to the new self proclaimed thorn in her side. Nevertheless, as desired, she moves away from the frat boy. Unfortunately, the movement is too swift though, sending her nearly colliding with a passing waiter's tray of drinks. Lauren disappears from view.

Predictably it was the bathroom stalls that beckoned, Quinn knows all too well, the pull, and once she finishes the track, she hurriedly reveals her intent of a much needed cigarette break to her largely passive audience. _Time to stop the games. _She doesn't go out into the parking lot to smoke though, of course. It's the right thing to do, but all the same, Quinn loathes that it's still impossible even as she edges closer to Lauren, to banish thoughts of a certain brunette as she pushes her way into the girl's bathroom. However, images of Rachel are soon replaced by memories of her old self as she watches the girl by the sink. Lo preens, and every mannerism is so flawlessly similar to her never quite forgotten habits that Quinn could have choreographed the moves herself. Make-up is Lauren's armour too, that's no secret and she isn't convinced that it's in any way consoling have it highlighted that she's never been unique in her methods of coping.

"Are you stalking me?" It lacks the bite that she aims for, as if all her reserves have been used up during their short encounter earlier. Without the malice from Lauren, Quinn is encouraged to respond playfully.

"Would that make you feel better?" She adds a smirk. "I have my camera in my bag; I can act out the role of the adoring paparazzi for you if you'd like." In the reflection, something indiscernible passes over Lauren's features. She laughs though and Quinn's stomach twists at the deception of the sound. She promises herself then and there that she will make this girl laugh for real, at least once, if it was the last thing she does.

"Leave me alone." Yet again, it is missing the necessary fire to really hit home. "You're a freak."

The blonde shakes her head. Her feelings can't be hurt by such a humdrum insult. "Didn't anybody tell you that if someone stalls their performance to check on you, it's polite to play nice? Freaks have feelings too, you know."

"Look, I'm all used up, it's been a long night and I'm tired, so sorry to disappoint but my insult well is totally dry. I'm done, so now that your conscience has been appeased, you can go."

"I'm not just leaving you like this." _Dangling over the edge of the abyss._ Quinn uses her most reassuring smile, which Santana refers to even now as her Brittany smile because it always worked without fail on that blonde; however, Lauren clearly isn't so easy to influence.

"Why not?" Quinn can't remember hearing anyone sound so defeated before.

"Because you're giving me such good reasons to stay." Her good humour falls flat as predicted, but she's desperate to keep talking in any case, concerned that if the lines of communication are closed, she won't get another chance. It's the only certainty she had. Unfortunately though, silence fell between them anyway, and she sighs again, refusing to give up, but nevertheless positive that her clock is ticking down. _The stage calls. _

"I didn't know you were a singer." Lauren responds finally, in the dying seconds before Quinn is about to consider genuinely walking out. The other blonde meanwhile is skilfully reapplying another coat of eyeliner to eyelids that were already practically painted shut. It is more than stalling. _I don't know anything _her frown seemed to say.

"Is that a problem?" Quinn responds, not unkindly. She's not sure why she cares so much what the other girl thinks of her, she'd assumed she'd gotten over such worries when she left Lima behind, but something of that scared girl lingers in the presence of this one.

"Up there on the stage, you just reminded me of somebody, that's all."

Her eyebrow quirks up, curiously and she releases a breath that she'd seen fit to hold. "A boyfriend you'd rather forget?"

"A friend who'd happily forget me actually." A large teardrop rolled down her cheek, singlehandedly devastating her hard work, but though Lauren couldn't have failed to notice, stuck to her reflection, she doesn't appear to care. In place of anger, she smiles at the ruin. "Unlucky for her, tumours aren't always easy to cut out; they spread their poison, leave scars…"

"You aren't toxic." The awful laughter bursts forth again, and the noise was worse than a scream. She grips Lauren's shoulders, willing her not to be dragged away by that inky tide. "You aren't." Quinn repeats, resolutely. "Nobody is that irredeemable."

"You don't know me."

"Whose fault is that, Lauren Tanner, you ran." She counters firmly. Hazel eyes widened at the first mention of the other girl's full and proper name. She's about about to explain, not wanting to be labelled a stalker a second time, but the other girl interrupts suddenly, knocking Quinn for six. It's a feeling she gets used to rapidly as the days wear on, she has to, but in that first instant, she is utterly disorientated.

"Let me make it up to you then." Lo's lips are pressed against Quinn's before she can even form a single syllable in response, snatching her breath and knocking her backwards. It's the last thing that she expects because it's the one thing that she would never do.

The reality is that it's always thrilling to look into the flames, even if she ends up being the one that gets burnt. That's why she doesn't break away immediately; automatically knowing that she'll never be the one that does. She always stuck by that, because despite her lips already feeling scorched on that occasion and the overwhelming feelings that surged from each embrace afterward, she had never done anything but welcome the heat. She was drawn to Lauren because of all the ways they were the same, and yet, she fell for the girl because of the things that made her different. Lo isn't just a mirror image of her younger self in Quinn's eyes anymore. She isn't viewed as just a lost girl that needs to be saved. She's more. The kiss, and every shared moment that came after, cemented that. It's the singular instance that changes things. She can pinpoint it from then, the feeling of the porcelain biting into her skin through her flimsy skirt, trembling fingers tearing through her hair and tracing her flesh endlessly, never still. She sees it reflected in the frantic caresses that are in stark opposition to the slow, hypnotising patterns which her tongue weaves.

"Wow." She forces out the compliment in spite of her burning lungs. Lauren is a phenomenal kisser, and that first time more than any she deserves to know it, especially as Quinn isn't tricked by the smug grin that blooms. This stranger that she knows so well doesn't fool her. She hates that the moment has the opportunity to stall forever her, because she has to leave. It could be squandered, thanks to a thundering clock. "We shouldn't do this now, like this, I have to get back to work." _It doesn't mean no, I'm not saying never. _She tries to get her eyes to convey a lack of rejection, clinging to what the split second could turn into if they let it.

Lauren pulled back, but she isn't chastised or wounded like Quinn imagined. She reaches for her purse and takes out a sheath of bills with a chuckle. "How much of your time will this buy me?" She enquires, utterly serious as she peels off a crisp $50 and tucks it into the top of Quinn's shirt. The blonde wants desperately to be offended by the tasteless display, but it seems impossible to stand her ground when the other girl is unashamedly working the tender flesh of her throat between her teeth, curling her tongue along the pulse point hungrily. It's bound to leave an ugly mark, so it's with a mixture of relief and abject regret that Quinn greets the knowledge that Lauren's mouth is gliding upwards before her earlobe gets sucked into a waiting mouth with a loud pop and the world stops spinning. Nothing exists but the pleasure of that sensation, and she's grateful that her own hands remain hooked around the blonde's waist, anchoring her. She has never been so undone by a make-out session until then, in that bathroom, with her knees on the verge of buckling. Quinn had no clue that she was even capable of feeling that aroused.

It has to stop; the clincher being the realisation that if this continues she'll be wearing her discomfort for the remainder of the night, her underwear ruined. "I have to go."

"You don't, I took care of that." For emphasis, another crumpled bill finds its way from the lining of Lauren's fist, fluidly travelling closer to the peak of Quinn's chest. She exhales shakily, suppressing a whimper before indulging herself a second more, taking with another taste to sustain her.

"Lauren, stop." She commands with the deception of increased authority. It doesn't work, however, the lie transparent. It's obvious to them both that she doesn't want this to end, forcing her to literally pick up the smaller girl and physically create some distance.

"You're no fun." Lo pouts, looking like a proud nymph with triumphantly smudged lips.

"Tell me something I don't know." It's a figure of speech, and she doesn't anticipate an answer, but ever capable of surprises, Lo gives her one.

"I hate this town as much if not more than I did the last five."

"I'm sorry." It's an inconsequential phrase for all time, but it's all Quinn has. Words are pathetic, and so she reaches out to erase another wet trail before it can wreak yet more havoc on the other girl's crumbling mask. "Come with me, you can watch from backstage if you must, but just come. I won't promise anything, but I think it's imperative that you hear the rest of my set."

Lauren smiled weakly. "Say please."

"Miss Lauren Tanner, will you do me the honour of staying until the end of my show, pretty please?" She asks, using her most gentlemanly impression to lead the girl alongside her. The reply makes her chuckle.

"Okay, but seriously, no power ballads, or I'm out!"

_**Your slightest look easily will unclose me though I have closed myself as fingers, you open always, petal by petal, myself as spring opens (touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose…**_

Lauren's presence at shows became a gradual inevitability, in the same way that although sometimes days passed before they saw each other again; Quinn could still count on the girl to materialise in her apartment like magic, waiting on her couch with movies and blankets or in her bed with invitingly warm skin. They don't talk, but they communicate in subtle unspoken ways, a language of gestures. That was, until on the night of the fifth gig invite in a row that the blonde attends, Quinn's lucky number, where words feel necessary. She breaks the rules and asks something of the other girl, daring to broach the proposition that's been plaguing her. She watches as Lo's eyes shrewdly skimmed the notepaper, conscious that her face stays a rehearsed blank. It's an unnerving talent. "Do you like the song?" Quinn is unable to stand another second of not knowing.

"It's amazing."

"Good, because I wrote it as a duet and you're singing it with me tonight." She ignores the stricken look on the face opposite her. "I've heard you in the shower, Lo, you're good."

Her fingers twirl the chain at her neck. "I'm no Kaylie Cruz."

The name is filed under the list of things they don't talk about, which feels almost infinite. "You're Lauren Tanner, and that's all you need to be."

"And you're a clueless dork." Quinn pays no attention to the dig, smiling widely and the girl squeezes her hand gently in return. "But thanks." It isn't a typical exchange of love but it's as close as they get.

"So, does that mean yes?"

"I can't. It has taken me a long time to get my head around the fact that there is more to life than…" She falters once more over the unmentionable and Quinn battles her frustration that Lauren remains afraid to voice anything about the majority of her life before she arrived in New England. It is hard enough to contend with, awareness that even the immediate present is as much of a stumbling block as her past lives in Milan or Berlin or Venice or anywhere. Mentions of none of the towns unlock anything that she strives to keep undisclosed, and it resembles the act of drawing blood out of a stone just getting her to admit anything beyond dots on a map at all. _All these lives she's led are forever a mystery. _The realisation that she might never make the headway she craves leaves Quinn sombre.

Meanwhile, Lauren clears her throat, looking at the ground as though it is suddenly the most interesting thing she had ever laid her eyes on. "What I'm trying to say, is that all of this, singing, isn't my thing. It's your saving grace, not mine."

"Lo, please, do this with me. With all due respect, you don't know what your passion is, you said yourself that you are still looking and I swear it'll be fun if you just allow yourself to let go for precisely 4 minutes." The smaller girl shakes her head, firmly, eager that the other is left deterred, she isn't. She can't ever be because she has always cared too much, the gift and curse of being Quinn Fabray. "Life isn't a competition." She replies. Regrettably, the slamming of the door indicates that she's unwittingly stepped on another landmine, leaving her to try and decode her innocuous statement.

It's exhausting. She can't ever fully figure out what she can said that could always be so wrong, so each time, she's left with no option but to bide her time whilst the other girl fumes. After every argument, she crosses her fingers that the moody stranger will reappear, and so far, her prayers sufficed. It always felt like enough. So long as the shiny, vapid magazines, that she had no interest in and had never seen Lauren read either, littered her coffee table. _The imprint of a former life. _ Or on the mornings after she had stayed over, Jo-Jo, the little grey sock monkey is safely rested on her pillowcase she was guaranteed that the blonde wasn't truly gone. It was a promise, in spite of what Lauren insisted that her feelings were about such things.

Nevertheless, after the umpteenth time of lying together, caught in the web between dreams and wakefulness, Quinn knew that she has to give verbal means of communication another chance. It scared her still that whilst Lauren is kissing her, or touching her, the girl comes alive and nothing is hidden. She can perfectly align every move, each gesture. Lauren's body is an open book, she has memorised every chapter and yet, afterward, she closes off, completely. It was as if she were two separate people inhabiting the same space. Quinn decides to try one last hurrah to reach the real Lauren, hoping that by sharing her less than rosy past, maybe the other girl will be encouraged to do the same. They aren't favourable odds, but worth a gamble when there is potentially so much to gain. Lo's fingertips are lightly dancing over her scars, faded to the slivers of moonlight, so she starts there, with the story she most dreads. She spares not a single detail of the accident or the repercussions that have spread into her present. _Rip off the band-aid._ It feels like the words will either come then, flowing in the darkness, or never.

"I thought I'd warn you that winter is heralded in by antibiotics and hospital visits, that's all." She concludes, after explaining all about her weakened chest and the endless stream of infections. Lauren stares out of the window at the trees turning skeletal, unblinking, still as a statue.

"I don't know how you stand it, I've had my fill of all that." Quinn gently appraises the perfectly vertical scar that spans the length of the girl's sternum. It bloomed pink and vivid, newer than hers, the legacy of the surgery that Lauren mentioned only when cornered, in the sparsest, most clinical of terms. It was obvious the girl only parroted what her doctor had told her without embellishment of her own experiences, thoughts or fears. All the same, it's still classed as a small victory for Quinn when the truth of the other girl's irregular heartbeat comes out the first night that they slept together, having awoke to find the small blonde huddled, foetal and shaking, in a cold sweat, the full force of the nightmare ravaging her. Lauren phrased her diagnosis, then and now, with all with the passion of a medical dictionary, spouting that she had a particularly rare form of Supraventricular Tachycardia, a heart rhythm disorder that had been treated with open heart surgery. Although she never divulges why any mention of her operation still causes her to cry uncontrollably. Quinn isn't stupid, she was always aware that some all-consuming dream had been destroyed, but she can't bring herself to submit to the mouse click that would give her closure. Googling her girlfriend's past has always been a step too far.

She changed the subject, something that she's become an expert at, switching to chat softly about the happier times of her high school experience. Lauren won't really engage in any of the stories, save for half-heartedly mocking her about cheerleading, and Quinn resigns herself to attempting sleep again when she remembers something. A week or so before, she came back to her apartment and found Lo in the armchair that she had happily overtaken, watching Sixteen Candles. She told the Quinn animatedly that it was one of her favourite movies, adding that it was still in her top 3 despite being highly unrealistic when compared to the prom that she went to. Quinn smiled. That almost forgotten memory made up her mind that she'd win Lauren over with the story of the William Mckinley High School senior prom.

The other girl's eyes light up as she speaks at length about that night, recalling in detail everything she can the dresses and decorations, lavishing description on the cheap tiara that graced Rachel's head. She knows it will work because Lauren dreams in lace. She lives for stuff like this. "You could have been Prom Queen, but you gave it up for her?" Her voice is a heavy mixture of admiration and disbelief. "I couldn't have done that."

"Why couldn't you? I've seen you watching all those romantic films, full of grand scale gestures and I know that you believe in love, you big softy."

Lauren scowls, and just like that, the bubble of happiness evaporates. "Can we change the subject; this story is suddenly making me feel like even more of a bitch." Quinn overlooks the dark clouds.

"No so fast, Lo, I want to know what you would have done, in my shoes. Unleash high school you, don't hold back." The blonde refuses, turning away, as though facing the wall will shield her from the line of questioning. "Tell me." Quinn, all but begs. She will take even crumbs about Lauren now, not to proud to stop herself behaving like a dog whining over the scraps.

"Alright, you asked for it. I would have kept that crown for myself, because I only cared about wanting it, regardless of whomever I had to throw under the bus to secure that desire and not only that, I would have delighted in rubbing my victory in everybody's face, including Rachel. Assuming that Finn was still Prom King in this scenario, I would have stolen him too if I could, whether I liked him or not." The girl's manner is shockingly cavalier, totally matter of factly. The only sign of regret is her averted eyes, and the slight tremor of her jaw that Quinn knows exists, even in the gloom. She doesn't speak yet, waiting for Lauren to finish tearing at herself long enough to hear her side. "See, I warned you that I didn't want to talk about this, now you've seen my true colours, feel free to run while you still can."

"Stop it, you don't fool me Tanner, I've known plenty of bitches in my time and that may have been you once upon a time, but isn't you now. You've changed, whether you acknowledge it or not, and who you really are, that person is the adorable girl who wakes up with the dawn but instead of leaving, waits patiently until I get up, just to make sure I eat breakfast, the same girl who dances around my apartment in her underwear to ensure that I smile at least once a day, even if I'm cranky from work. Somebody who cares so much that she doesn't let go of my hand all night long, that's the Lauren Tanner I know. Those are your colours."

The other girl lets her head fall into her hands. "I'm sorry. It's just, I try and be done with the past, but it's never quite through with me. The things I did went beyond mean girl, I was awful. That girl might be dead, but she isn't buried. I'm worried that she'll never…that people won't-"

Quinn interrupts quickly, pulling the other girl's face away from the prison of her palms. She stares back unflinchingly. "It was a life time ago. You have to stop letting the past hurt you." Her lips brush the puckered line of repaired tissue along Lauren's chest. She used to believe that it tasted like hopefulness back then, but now she wonders whether she can trust her memory. On the good days she still believes that she was correct, she can listen to the words she uttered, played back in her own brain, without sobbing. That night she said, "I'll give you the same advice that somebody gave me when I was young and stupid. You have to forgive yourself for the things you did when you were a child, all the mistakes you made then, its okay to let them go."

"Did it work for you, hearing that?"

"Eventually, yes."

Lauren sighs and Quinn thinks it is the most mournful sound she has ever heard. It reminds her why she doesn't trust words and she wishes that she could take every word of the last minute or so back. She longs to rewind to their happy prom conservation. "I don't think I'll ever catch up to you…"

"Its okay, my life, all the things that have happened, it's a lot. I don't expect you to wrap your head around it all." She smiles tenderly as best she can, deciding that enough words had been exchanged for one night. They are both all talked out, but there's a remedy that always fixes whatever is broken. Quinn infuses the kiss, a sloppy joining of mouths, with everything she possesses. It is the only expression of love that she takes as real. "So long as you understand this," she murmurs, savouring the taste of the girl on her tongue, "we're going to be fine."

"I love you." Lauren murmured back, her face buried in Quinn's hair. It could have been nothing more than a shallow intake of breath, but it wasn't.

_**Or if your wish be to close me, I, and my life, will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully, everywhere descending…**_

The stillness strikes her first as she enters the apartment, because whilst she is accustomed to layers of quietness in the daytime, Lauren's voice only seems to wake at night, absolute silence is nevertheless a rare commodity. The TV or radio are usually always on, continuously filling the air with some degree of abstract sound. Sometimes there would be humming, or the squeaking of boards as the blonde danced. She never told the girl, but that was her favourite homecoming sound, and if it reached her ears she would always fight to prolong it for as long as she could, scooping the other girl into a clumsy waltz. There's nothing to greet her this time though, only a wall of cold. Winter has set in. She doesn't have to push open the bedroom door to know that she won't trip over the piles of Lo's forgotten clothes that normally lay their traps on the floor. The living room gives her all the answers she needs without going far. There are no blankets, empty coffee mugs or unread magazines scattered around. It's all gone.__Lauren breezed out of her life with the same abruptness that allowed her to barge in.

Quinn collapses onto the bed, crushed by a wave of tiredness so acute that she didn't think she'd ever be able to move again. She pressed her face into the pillow, her own, because she cannot bear the torment of the sweet, familiar scent on top of everything else. Balling her fists up tight, she screams out until her lungs give in. It doesn't help and to add insult to injury, her nostrils flood with the perfume of a vanished girl anyway. Her eyes clouded over, blinding her and she longs for the required energy to strip the sheets, to ball them up and fling them far into the hall, but she might as well ask for the will to climb Everest. She can't even wrap her arms around herself. Everything is too much, even the simplest action, she's overloaded by the compulsion to breathe. Tellingly, later, when she compromises by shoving the unwelcome pillow to the floor, her stuffed lamb is the only thing that dropped alongside. The toy waited alone. It truly is all over.

Time stands still, so she has no clue how long it takes her to gather the courage to dial her phone. It isn't important, proving futile in any case. Quinn is left hanging, without even the option to leave a message, only the preset tone that informed her that the phone was no longer in service. It is Rachel Berry all over again, but a million times worse, because this time she let herself believe that her feelings weren't one sided. She'd never exchanged the 3 little words with the brunette, or left her a key under the mat. Apparently, she was still as big of an idiot as ever, letting herself be fooled. _Clean break._ Quinn imagines the blonde doing exactly that, ditching her phone and buying another without a backwards glance into the trash. After all, it was what Lauren did, reinvent, no expense spared, leaving her feeling as dispensable as that gadget. There was no note explaining, not a single justification, sorry, or goodbye. There's only silence and empty corners.

Nevertheless, she kept calling, letting her phone ring and ring and checking her messages avidly, barely daring to hope each time she came back to find her answer machine light blinking at her. That ritual continued over a flurry of days, until a Skype session from Santana, and a dose of tough love, sobered her up from her daze. It makes Quinn realise that a relationship born out of silence, shadows and omissions couldn't be classed as anything at all. It wasn't worth her mourning. The gaps become worse than lies as she analyses how little she had actually amassed, a treacherous maze for her mind to circle endlessly over. She was becoming obsessed and there were only two courses of action, move on, stop caring, or find answers and closure herself. Therefore, it is in place of wordless acceptance that she finally opens her laptop. The search engine calls to her, the cursor blinking dully. She has nothing to lose and so she types in 2 words. _What's in a name? _She thinks, harmlessly. Quinn is rewarded with the same phrase, over and over again. _Queen of the beam._

Everything clicks into place even before she adds it to her search terms and is flooded with information about an idealised London 2012. Quinn lingers over the images, it seems like there are 10000s, photos that promise flawless braids, glitter and shiny spandex. Colours have never seemed brighter than those greens and oranges and the worst part is that Lauren wears a smile in each that she has never seen. It becomes painful to hold that gaze even photographically but she is powerless to close the lid. Her chest aches as she compels herself to trawl page after identical page. By the time she stops looking, her body is stiff and her head throbbing. She doesn't reach for painkillers though, in spite of the fact that the escape of a dreamless sleep is likely to never be more tempting. Instead, Quinn swaps one variety of pages for another. She scribbles long into the night; her notebook steadily filling as her finished song meets the dawn. The blonde plays it at the end of every show, a fitting climax.

It starts as penance but ultimately, it becomes a form of cathartic release. It's the goodbye that she was robbed of, the valentine and the slamming of the door. Whenever she's feeling brave, usually buoyed by the artificial courage of the liquor cabinet, Quinn states inwardly that if she sees the girl again she'll politely thank her for the inspiration, after all, her writing has become prolific, heartbreak acting as great brainstorming tool, and everybody seems pleased by the results. What more could she ask for, her new sound was a hit, it was a good thing. Late at night though, when she's alone and her thoughts are steered towards Lauren Tanner, Quinn knows that grateful civility is the last thing she'd fall back on. The problem is, even as days turn to weeks and the chill turns to frost, she can't decide for longer than a minute at a time if the correct course of action would be to fall into the other girl's arms and never break free or hit her hard enough to shatter their unfinished business into pieces miniscule enough to never reconnect. In those blurry moments, she sings the song out to the walls of her empty apartment, reminding herself that there was no going back. The ending, like all the rest of the time she'd spent with the blonde, only offered incessant questions and gaps waiting to be filled. She is better off, and if she doubts it, she just throws herself into more composing, letting the piano drown her out until she felt steady again.

Back in the real world, her friends endlessly encourage her to release the track as her first solo single when she makes it big, but they don't understand that every performance at an open mike night or audition tape she sends is accompanied by the visual of Lauren. She sees the image of the girl clear as day visualising as she hears the song while driving her car along some unknown stretch of road, or in the mall as she buys yet more fancy plumage to hide behind. Their hearts would stop in unison. Quinn is left at a crossroads that nobody can help her navigate. She doesn't know what would be worse, the idea that Lauren would turn off the radio, or the notion of her listening until the last note faded. Quinn doesn't want to find out. She was ready for such an unveiling of herself once; she primed herself for it after those 3 words were uttered, but that opportunity is long past. These days she tries for numb, it hurts less. She tells herself that nothing can touch her now; her insides are all dried up like autumn leaves.


End file.
